


Ok, So This is Normal Then? Right.

by rowanashke



Series: Domestic Bliss is Totally Overrated [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-16 23:41:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1366027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowanashke/pseuds/rowanashke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A slice of life from Sherlock & John's relationship. Settling in, figuring things out. John learns something about Sherlock that really isn't fair, but then, when was life fair?  And Greg just kind of...is there.</p>
<p>John/Sherlock established relationship, a little (non-explicit) sex, and mostly just poor John dealing with the force of nature that is Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ok, So This is Normal Then? Right.

**Author's Note:**

> Part two of my series. Mostly setting things up for later chapters.

Everything had just kind of…settled. Normalcy-or as close as you could get when one of you was Sherlock Holmes.

John had never been both so happy and so unhappy at the same time. It was odd and paradoxical and utterly frustrating. Still, the happiness outweighed the unhappiness enough to make him smile more often than normal, which was making everyone around him happier.

He’d never noticed how much his friends worried about him until there wasn’t anything to worry about. Made him feel kind of selfish, like a big jerk who hadn’t been paying attention. When he tried to articulate his feelings to Sarah, who’d become a surprisingly good friend, she’d just laughed at him and hugged him and told him that it wasn’t his fault.

“You were pretty down there for a while,” she pointed out logically. “It’s hard to see the pit when you’re standing at the bottom of it. It’s ok. You’re better now.”

She, like most of his friends, tacitly didn’t mention the reason he’d gotten better. Most of his friends, while being happy he was…well, happier…didn’t exactly approve of Sherlock Holmes in general and most definitely didn’t approve of a relationship with the same famous detective.

The same man who was, conversely, also the reason he was currently rather miserable.

Figured, really. Maybe his friends were on to something after all…but John knew that now that he had Sherlock in his arms, he wasn’t going to be able to let him go a second time. For anything.

Even this.

-0-0-0-0-0-

“Seriously? Sherlock….there’s a _liver_ in the microwave and a _head_ in the refrigerator and _no sign_ of those vegetables I brought home yesterday.” John said, glaring into the depths of the refrigerator.

“The liver is for an experiment and carrots are _boring_ ,” Sherlock replied.

John stood up, peering over the refrigerator door towards the living room. Sherlock was in the couch, leaning back, with his head tilted at a rather uncomfortable looking angle so he could eye John in the kitchen. _Too much to hope he was checking out my ass,_ John thought in resignation.

“Ew and yes, yes they are but they are also _good for you_.” John retorted. “What did you do with them?”

Sherlock only raised his eyebrow, his lips thinning into a line that clearly read _you can’t make me tell._

“Sherlock…” John sighed and shut the door, then paced over to where Sherlock was sitting. “Sit up, you’ll break your neck doing that.”

Sherlock snorted, but sat up, slouching in the couch and wiggling his stockinged feet.

“Where are my carrots?” John asked, then gave into the urge to bury his fingers in Sherlock’s soft, curling hair. “Honestly.”

“Mmm” was Sherlock’s only response.

“Hey, don’t you fall asleep on me,” John said, rolling his eyes. He didn’t stop the massage, though, scratching his fingers lightly over Sherlock’s skull.

“Why didn’t I ever have you do this before?” Sherlock mused, his body relaxing a bit more.

“Because I was a bloody homophobic moron who would have blushed and stuttered if you’d asked?” John asked, sounding amused.

“It’s nice to see that everyone is capable of personal growth,” Sherlock practically purred.

“Yes.” John leaned down, breathing into Sherlock’s ear. “Now exhibit some personal growth of your own and tell me where my carrots are, Sherlock.”

Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes, but a glance at John’s face told him he wasn’t going to get away with it this time. “Top drawer, under my fourth-best scarf.” Sherlock said at last, pouting.

“Really.” John removed his hands, ignoring Sherlock’s protest, and padded into the bedroom they now shared, muttering under his breath. “Carrots in the sock drawer and dead people in the refrigerator.”

Finding his prize, he shuffled back into the kitchen and re-stored them where they belonged, then puttered about making some coffee. He preferred tea but Sherlock liked the extra buzz from the beans, and John occasionally broke down and shared a cup with him.

“I’m so boooored.” John hadn’t noticed Sherlock sneaking up on him-the big man could move like a cat if he wanted to-but long-time training and steady nerves allowed him to continue spooning the coffee grounds into the automatic maker.

“We’ll get a case soon,” John said soothingly. And privately hoping that _soon_ was indeed _soon_ , because Sherlock was on the thin edge of driving him _insane_.

For more than one reason.

“We haven’t had a case in _daaaays_ ,” Sherlock moaned, draping himself dramatically over John’s back.

“Call Lestrade.” John retorted, pouring water into the reservoir. “He might have something.”

“All he has is boring cases.” Sherlock moaned in his ear.

Sherlock was getting heavy. And the moaning was _not_ helping matters.

“Sherlock,” John said between gritted teeth. “Remember the _discussion_ we had?”

Sherlock paused, his face stilling for a moment. Then he sighed, dramatically, and stood up. “Your libido is really quite annoying,” he noted, making a face. “All I did was moan.”

“In my _ear_.” John retorted, flushing. “And I haven’t gotten anything for _daaaays_.”

He deliberately mimicked Sherlock’s earlier whine and was rewarded by an uncertain, uneasy expression. “Do you need to…”

“No. Thank you.” John said, keeping his expression pleasant and his voice steady. “I’m fine. Kiss me and go find something to amuse yourself. That show you like should be on-the one you make fun of because they make up things as they go along?”

“Bah.” But Sherlock did as he was asked, leaning over and kissing John in a way that was _certainly_ not good for his libido before shuffling off to the living room to flick on the telly.

_Oh, god. It’s not fair. You hate me, don’t you? Like, seriously hate me. What did I do to piss you off this much, anyway? I thought I was being a pretty good person._

The _discussion_ at question had been one of the more embarrassing moments of John’s life, but utterly, completely necessary if Sherlock didn’t want to find himself flying through the wall when John punched him out of sheer bloody-minded sexual frustration.

Sherlock, as it turned out, was pretty much uninterested in sex.

Like, at all.

Not interested.

And John was about to go insane.

John had absolutely zero idea what to do when it came to seduction, so Holmes had done some research for him. And they’d tried it-everything that looked remotely possible. (There were just some things that were a no, no matter how much John wanted to get off. Seriously.)

Nothing. Barely a stir down there.

John didn’t think it was possible to die of blue balls, but he thought he might be on track to find out.

Still. The quiet moments curled up with Sherlock on the sofa were worth almost anything. The moments when their eyes would meet and John would catch that unguarded, sweet smile on his face, directed solely at him, just for him…

Well, he had no intention or desire to find another partner.  Ever. He’d just have to…suffer, he supposed. And try very hard not to take it out on Sherlock.

Sherlock tried. He really did. He’d gotten rather proficient at hand-jobs. John hadn’t worked up the courage to suggest oral; the slightly horrified, prim look on Sherlock’s face the one time they’d tried it the other way had given John all the hints he needed as to how Sherlock felt on that subject. 

The snuggling was nice. The snogging was…er, nice. The love was better than nice. John would just have to live without the shagging. He could do it. He was strong. He was resolute. He was…

_Fucking horny._

John turned on the drip, then glanced at the clock. Mrs. Hudson had gone to the market and John was keeping an eye out to make sure she got home alright-she was fine, but he couldn’t help but worry a bit. Her hip was getting worse, despite her ‘herbal remedies’ (he knew damn well it was marijuana, but he was just glad she had _something_ to help with the pain). Pretty soon John thought he’d be able to get her to let him do the shopping for her.

“I require coffee.” Sherlock’s voice floated out of the living room.

“It’s making,” John retorted, grinning. “And I require something too.”

There was a pause.

“Please?” Sherlock said after a moment.

“Well done.” John took down the cups, chuckling. “I’ll get you trained yet.”

Sherlock was suddenly standing at the kitchen door, frowning at him. “I am not a puppy,” he informed John childishly.

“No…because then I could teach you at least not to widdle on the floor,” John teased.

“I do not _widdle on the floor_ ,” Sherlock replied, looking utterly scandalized.

“It was a joke,” John said, rolling his eyes.

Sherlock snorted. “Your humor leaves much to be desired. Such as _actual humor_.”

“God, I hope you get a case soon,” John said, wrinkling his nose. “You’re such a prat when you’re bored.”

There was a pause. John blinked, surprised, and turned, only to collide with Sherlock’s chest.

He felt Sherlock’s arms go around him and sighed, leaning into the other man’s frame. “I’m sorry.” Sherlock said, and John could hear the actual apology in his voice. It made John’s irritation melt away. Of course.

Circling Sherlock’s waist with his arms, he snuggled up to the other man’s lean frame and tilted his head back, smiling. “I know.” He told Sherlock. “I really do. You can’t help it.”

“I really can’t.” Sherlock answered, then kissed him gently. “I do love you though.”

“I know.” John whispered. Sherlock kissed him again.

The kiss slowly deepened. John felt Sherlock’s tongue sweep over his lips and gladly parted his own, welcoming his lover deeper inside. As Sherlock’s tongue mapped out his mouth possessively, John couldn’t stop the moan that escaped from deep in his chest. Pressing closer to Sherlock’s body, he dimly sought any sign that this was affecting Sherlock in any way. _Any way, please god, just this once…_

Sherlock’s phone suddenly jingled and he pulled away, his face lighting up. “A case!” he exclaimed.

John staggered back against the counter, staring stupidly at Sherlock, who had immediately abandoned him to go find his cellular. John was aching, throbbing, _trembling_ with need.

Sherlock was…not.

_God, I seriously could start hating you right now, you bloody arrogant bastard. Hope you’re having a good laugh up there, because I’m going to find a way to make you regret this._

-0-0-0-0-

The case turned out to be exciting enough to drag John’s mind off his ‘problem’; an angry group of young men had started stealing bomb parts, but it took Sherlock to point out they were actually _bomb parts_ and not just random unrelated things. They tracked the gang through the streets of London and finally located their ‘hidden base’, an abandoned warehouse. Sherlock would insist on going in first, and John was happy he’d thought to stuff his gun into his pants, so other than some rough-and-tumble with a couple of the kids who tried to ambush them, they got off remarkably light. By the time Lestrade and the rest arrived they’d pretty well tied everything up.

John suffered a split lip and a nasty kick to the shin, while Sherlock got off light with a few bruises. Lestrade bawled them out, but Sherlock ignored him, fussing over John’s lip. Then, to Lestrade’s obvious amusement and Sally’s openly expressed disgust, Sherlock insisted on kissing it all better.

It hurt to kiss Sherlock, but the expression on Sally’s face was completely worth it.

Once Sherlock had finished irritating Sally, he got distracted by something at the site again and left John leaning wearily against the wall, more than happy to just rest. He’d worked at the clinic this morning, on top of this late-night criminal run, and he had already called Sarah to beg off working tomorrow. Luckily for him it was a quiet time and Sally told him to stay home-and _sleep_ , not shag his brains out with his too-hot boyfriend. John had just laughed, but he was glad that Sally hadn’t been able to see his face at the time.

“So.” Lestrade was there, suddenly, grinning at him with his arms crossed over his chest. “You and Sherlock.”

“Yeah?” John asked, raising his eyebrow. He refused to be embarrassed.

“Things going well then, yeah?” Greg asked, leaning on the wall.

_No. I’m dying from lack of sex and Sherlock keeps nailing me in every way but the one I actually need._

Out loud, he said, “Yeah. It’s good. Probably the oddest but most stable relationship I’ve ever had, really.”

“That’s so sad,” Greg quipped, and John grinned.

“You wanna hit the pub?” Greg asked finally. “After we wrap this I’m free.”

John almost said no, automatically, but then changed his mind. He hadn’t been out with Greg hardly at all since Sherlock had come back, and he missed hanging out with the other man. “Yeah, that sounds good. Let me tell Sherlock and I’ll meet you-usual?”

“Great. Give me an hour, tops.” Greg said, looking pleased.

As he watched Greg move to talk to Sally, John felt a pang. He really needed to not neglect his friends because of Sherlock; he had a feeling there weren’t that many people Greg felt comfortable with and the man was going through a nasty divorce settlement. He needed an ear now and then. He couldn’t talk to his subordinates about his home troubles…and being an inspector made it hard for the man to make friends outside of work.

_I’ll start being a better friend,_ he promised himself. _Sherlock will just have to understand it._

-0-0-0-0-0-

In the end, Sherlock didn’t take it that badly; he pouted a little, but perked up when John pointed out it’d be a good time to take that nasty head he’d been keeping in the fridge to the lab. Molly would be happy to help him dissect it. For science, of course.

An hour and a half later, he greeted Lestrade, who came in looking distinctly grumpy. Shoving the pint he’d ordered across the table, John waited for Greg to get settled and raised his eyebrow questioningly.

“Oh, just paperwork,” Greg grumbled, taking a swig. “I swear, every time I turn around they’re adding a page or more to the official paperwork we have to fill out.  And you and your boy Sherlock the Wonder Hamster don’t make it much easier. You know, if you get seriously hurt at a crime scene, I have to fill out a twenty-seven page report detailing every last inch of your movements on said crime scene?”

“Ouch.” John said, grinning. “Good thing we’re usually so careful.”

Greg snorted and rolled his eyes, making John laugh.

Serious drinking happened for a while then. Greg never got down to really talking until he’d had about four; John held back, since his tolerance had fallen sharply while he was serving time in the military. Once Lestrade had enough in him to really relax, the talking started.

“She’s taking your car?” John asked, raising his eyebrows. Everyone knew how much Greg loved that thing.

“Yeah. And most of the furniture, and the pictures, and the dishes, and…well, I have a house. A big, empty house.” Greg said, making a face. “I’m going to sell the damn thing and move into a flat somewhere. It’s too big and there’s too many memories…”

He faltered, then shook his head, draining his beer. “Bah. I refuse to get all weepy. She’s been cheating on me for the last five years. At least. Not worth my time.”

“Yeah.” John said softly, reaching out to gently squeeze Greg’s shoulder. “You can still get weepy. I don’t mind.”

“No, thanks,” Greg said, grinning a little. “I don’t think it’d do much for my reputation to be seen bawling on your shoulder.”

_Because you’re the DI, or because I’m gay?_ John wondered, then chided himself for the unfriendly thought. Being openly gay with Sherlock was…uh, a little difficult, since he’d spent so much time protesting it before. He knew he was a bit touchy when it came to things like that and tried to adjust his reactions accordingly.

“Well, have another.” John said, signaling the waitress. “On me.”

“You’re a good man, John Watson.” Greg said, leaning on his fist. “And not just because you buy me beer.”

John laughed and rolled his eyes. “Suuure.”

_Six more pints later_.

“I think…” Greg said carefully, swaying in his chair, “That I am drunk.”

John giggled; he couldn’t help it. “Really. I wouldn’t have…uh, noticed.”

“Oh, god, can you imagine Sherlock’s face if he’d been here to hear me say that?” Greg said, giggling too. “He’d have exploded from all the ‘duh’ in his system.”

Greg dissolved into laughter. “Oh, god, his brain…would melt…out of his ears…”

That set them off again; choking and snorting, they managed to finally calm down. Wiping tears out of his eyes, Greg shook his head slowly, then sighed. “Ah. I suppose I’d better get home.”

“Mmm.” John agreed. Then he frowned, thinking of Greg’s earlier words. _A big, empty house_.

“Don’t go home.” John said impulsively. “Come home with me.”

Greg snorted. “Think Sherlock might get a bit jealous if I shag you on the sofa,” He pointed out, then broke down laughing again.

John froze, his eyes widening. _Oh, shit, stop it, John he’s joking, he can’t even remember_.

“Not like that,” John finally said, reaching out to playfully shove Greg’s shoulder. “Prat. There’s an empty bedroom upstairs that used to be mine. You can sleep there. Better than your house, yeah?”

Greg, still occasionally burbling with laughter, nodded. “Yeah. Thanks. I appreciate it. I don’t…” His expression shifted, sadness stealing the laughter. “I don’t get home much, lately.”

“Yeah.” Greg shook his head, then rose, draining his beer. “C’mon. To Baker street.”

He helped Greg stand up and they staggered out the door together, laughing at the way their feet got tangled up. Hailing a taxi-John didn’t have Sherlock’s magical ‘taxi getting’ fingers, but he did alright usually-they tumbled in and lay in a companionable heap on the backseat, giggling and snorting at each other.

When they arrived at Baker Street John fumbled his key out, then managed to get them inside. “Shh,” he told Greg a little loudly. “Don’t wake up Mrs. Hudson.”

“Landlady. Got it.” Greg, for all that he was far drunker than John, was still weirdly more coordinated and they managed to get up the stairs without causing each other or themselves bodily harm. Walking into the flat, he wasn’t all that surprised that Sherlock was still gone-dissecting that nasty head was probably holding his attention pretty good.

Once inside, though, Greg collapsed on the couch and groaned. “I don’t think I can make more stairs,” he told John honestly.

John chuckled. “Sleep on the couch. Sherlock does it all the time, so it must be comfortable. I’ll grab you a blanket.”

“How are you so much less drunk than me?” Greg complained, stretching out on the padded sofa.

“I had half the beer you did?” John said, grinning. “Kick off your shoes. I’d say take off your pants, but I really don’t want Sherlock to get the wrong idea.”

Greg hooted with laughter. “Yeah, fuck. He turned one straight guy gay. He probably thinks he has magical gay-powers or something.”

John snorted, returning from the bedroom with a blanket, which he draped carefully over Greg’s frame. “To be fair,” he pointed out, grinning. “I’m not sure I was totally straight before. I just thought I should be, I think. And…”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “He does have magical gay powers. Haven’t you noticed?”

“I try not to…mmm, the sparkles.” Greg muttered, then fell abruptly asleep.

Grinning still, John carefully rearranged the DI into a more comfortable position, ruffled his hair, then sighed. He wasn’t tired and the booze seemed to be wearing off-not unusual for him. _Low tolerance but high absorption rate. Not really fair. Oh well._

_God, Greg looks so cute when he’s slee…_

_Oh, hell. I did_ not _just think that. I am so totally gay._

Laughing at himself now, he rose and padded into the kitchen, putting on the kettle and setting out a couple of mugs. They’d kick Sherlock out of the labs soon. It was unusual to be in the flat without Sherlock ‘bumping around’, as Mrs. Hudson called it, and the silence was a bit weird.

_I think I was telling Greg the truth,_ he thought, watching the fire under the kettle. _I think I’ve always been a bit gay. I mean, I’ve never really had a girlfriend last longer than a couple of months, and even then, we weren’t seeing each other much. And I’ve always had close male friends. I wonder what would have been different if I’d noticed it earlier. Harry knew, I think-she used to give me crap about me and Kyle. I used to punch her a lot though, so we were probably even._

He smiled, then set up the tea leaves. _It doesn’t matter, I suppose. Gay, Straight, Bisexual, whatever. Labels are for losers. I’m me. That’s all I care about._

That level of self-confidence had been a long time coming. And John knew damn well that it had nothing to do with his ex-psychiatrist and a lot to do with a certain curly-haired, blue-eyed genius.

He heard the flat door and turned the heat off under the kettle, once again marveling at Sherlock’s precise timing. “Kettle’s on, and be quiet, we have a guest.”

Sherlock shed his coat and scarf, then slipped off his shoes. Padding into the kitchen, he wrapped his arms around John’s waist and snuggled into his back, leaving John’s hands free to, of course, serve his tea.

“Is this going to become a regular thing?” Sherlock asked, not sounding too pleased about it.

“I don’t know.” John retorted, rolling his eyes. “He got drunk and I didn’t want to send him home to his empty house. Be nice.”

Sherlock snorted, but nuzzled John’s neck happily. “I don’t mind, I suppose. He is my…” He paused, then pushed on, sounding a bit tense. “Friend.”

“Yes. He is your friend.” John was only half-concentrating on the conversation. Mostly he was thinking about how nice Sherlock’s mouth felt on his neck and how warm his hand felt on his chest and oh, damn,

Accidental erection time.

“You’re aroused.” Sherlock’s voice in his ear was _not_ helping.

“I know.” John said, closing his eyes. “Sorry. It’s your fault, you know.”

“While I find it a touch tedious,” Sherlock said, sliding his hand down John’s stomach, “I am also aware it’s a compliment. You find me sexually arousing,” _God, he needs to stop saying aroused. Arousing. Anything, really._ “John…”

And then Sherlock’s hand was in his pants and his lips were on his neck and all John could do was grip the counter and try to remember that Greg was asleep on the couch.

For not being aroused himself, Sherlock was pretty damn good at knowing what set john off. His long, clever fingers did _exactly_ the right things and it wasn’t long at all before John was helplessly bucking his hips, moaning into his fist and _oh, god, yes fuck yes_.

After, Sherlock held John against his chest, supporting him while John was floating on the fluffy clouds of pleasure, but John could feel Sherlock’s desire to wash his hand radiating from the slender man’s body. Sucking in a few deep breaths, he forced himself to stand on his own, giving Sherlock a weak grin over his shoulder. “Go wash your hand. I’ll change my pants and we’ll have some tea, alright?”

Sherlock smiled, briefly, then kissed John before going to do just that. Shaking his head, John tottered to the bedroom to find a change of pants.

Only Sherlock noticed Greg’s head peering at them from the sofa, and he didn’t comment.

-0-0-0-0-0-

The next case was even more thrilling. For Sherlock, anyway. For John it was a nightmare of mutilated body parts, night-time chases through London, and getting shot at. Not once, but _twice_ , and the second man managed to get close enough to seriously scare John.

Sherlock was running his fingers over the crease the bullet had put in John’s shoulder, his expression distant. John, shirtless and utterly wiped out, was sprawled on the couch, he head on Sherlock’s lap, snoring lightly.

_Won’t scar. Circles under John’s eyes; I need to let him sleep more. I forget he needs more sleep than I do. Sloppy. I was sloppy today and John almost got hurt. This caring thing is difficult. Distracting. Pulls my focus. I have to protect him. I can’t lose him. Mycroft was right, damn him, but it’s too late. I need him._

He sighed, then glanced up when he heard the doorbell. A moment later, two sets of footsteps on the stairs- _lighter, one side slightly off. Mrs. Murdock. Heavier, shuffling, thick soles. Strong gait. Inspector Lestrade._

“Come in,” He called just before Mrs. Murdock knocked.

She pushed the door open, beaming at him. “the DI’s here to see you, Holmes dear. Do you want some tea? I’ll put the kettle on for you.”

Sherlock smiled at her, gently. “That would be nice.”

Greg shed his coat, then settled gingerly on the other chair, his eyes moving over John’s toned, fit body. “He alright?” Greg asked, sounding a bit unhappy.

“Yes.” Sherlock didn’t stop gently tracing his fingers over the wound. “Unharmed.”

“Good.” Greg relaxed then, letting his body sink into the chair. “Scared me, there. Thought that guy had John’s number when he raised that gun.”

Sherlock hesitated, then reluctantly decided there was something he had to say. John would give him _the look_ if he was awake enough to notice that Sherlock hadn’t said it. “Thank you.” He said quietly. “For getting there.”

“No problem.” Greg said, smiling happily. Getting a _thank you_ from Sherlock was kind of a treat; it didn’t happen often, after all. “John’s a great guy. He certainly makes _you_ easier to be around.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to Greg’s face, a little stung…but Greg was smiling at him, and there was warmth and something kind in his eyes, and Sherlock, after a moment’s thought, decided he was _kidding_ him. He was getting better at recognizing it.

He smiled back at Greg, a little unsure of how to respond-his usual blend of sarcasm and disdain didn’t feel right, and he wasn’t very good at being _nice_ , as John liked to point out. Often.

Luckily Mrs. Hudson bustled in and fussed at them both, demanding Greg settle a blanket over John’s form and then fixing their tea the way they both liked it. Before she left, she patted Greg’s shoulder and beamed at them all fondly. “My boys,” she said with a sigh of happiness.

Sherlock smiled back at her, an honest smile, and then realized that Greg was staring at him. Blinking, he stared back, trying to figure out what the DI found so fascinating about him suddenly. No matter how hard he tried, though, he couldn’t imagine what it would be and finally asked, rather snappishly, “What?”

“You.” Greg said, grinning now. “Sorry. It’s that I haven’t seen you smile that like. Ever, I think. Usually you’re smug or just on the edge of psychotic. I’ve seen you give that tight little smile at corpses when you’ve figured out the case, but…”

Sherlock felt uncomfortable. Greg seemed to notice, which was odd considering how much the DI didn’t usually notice things, because he stood up and finished his tea. “Well, no rest for the wicked. I have to go finish the paperwork. Just wanted to check in on you two. I’ll text you as soon as something comes in.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, too tired for social niceties like goodbyes. Greg didn’t seem to mind.

 

-0-0-0-0-

The next case was really annoying; John spent most of it tied up and hung from his ankles, shivering in the cold, damp wet and waiting for Sherlock to figure out where he was. He really wasn’t in any danger. The kidnapper was rather incompetent and waffled between wanting to kill him and being afraid to do so. By the time he heard the footsteps on the landing he was cramped and ready to punch something.

It was Greg, not Sherlock; John frowned as Greg helped him down, trying desperately not to make any undignified noises-failing, of course. Muffling his whimpers against Greg’s shoulder, he waited patiently for the blood to return to the correct places.

“Where’s…She..Sherlock?” John managed to ask.

Greg chuckled, absently rubbing John’s back. “He’s around. I last saw him leaning far too far over a railing and shouting at Anderson. I believe it was something along the lines of “your stupidity amazes even me, and I expect very little from you.”

John snorted. “Git.”

“Mmm.”

They stood there for some time, long enough for the tingles to fade from John’s feet. Feeling an odd pang of reluctance, he carefully pulled himself from Greg’s arms, grinning a little up at the other man. “Thanks.”

“John…are you ok?” Greg suddenly asked.

“What? Yeah, I mean, my feet hurt, but…”

“No.” Greg said, rolling his eyes. “I mean, in general. Are you…ok?”

John blinked, looking surprised. “Oh. Oh, uh. Yeah. I’m fine. Things are good. There’s been some adjustments, but, you know, there always are. I’m fine. Everything’s just…fine.”

“Hmm.” Greg sighed, then shrugged. “Ok. Just remember…if you need an ear, or a shoulder, I’m here.”

“Thanks.” John said, smiling. “Really.”

“Well.” Greg hesitated, and then laughed. “Let’s go save Anderson, I suppose.”

They turned and walked-or limped, in John’s case-towards the street.

And from the shadows, Sherlock emerged, his eyes thoughtful and a little, almost smug smile playing over his lips.

_Yes, I believe that will work._

…

 


End file.
